


Survivor

by thesunkenship



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Hisana backstory, Hisana deserves a proper backstory and damnit I'm going to give it to her, Semi-graphic violence, Sex, Smelling daisies?, amoral Hisana, unenthusiastic consent, what did you think Hisana was doing in between abandoning Rukia and marrying Byakuya?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunkenship/pseuds/thesunkenship
Summary: Hisana spent decade after exhausting decade clawing her way up from the Seventy-Eighth District.Above all else, Hisana is a survivor. Sometimes she hates that about herself.





	Survivor

When Hisana had asked Byakuya for darkness he had paused and looked into her eyes for a long moment. Then, seemingly appeased by whatever spark or reason he found there, he had turned smoothly on his heel and paced towards the window to oblige without comment. 

Now, they lie on their sides, facing each other, with scant inches separating their bodies.

Shafts of starlight work their way around the edges of heavy curtains, illuminating no more than just the bare outline of their shapes. 

For her, it’s a relief not to be forced to look at the room itself: hand-worked engravings on mahogany wood and deep plum fabrics drowning in silver embroidery. It’s not that she doesn’t think she deserves the decadence and wealth of her new station, but the sharp contrast to her old life brings memories of hunger and poverty into sharp relief. 

No, Hisana muses, she won’t dwell on any of that tonight. She will try to find some comfort in the arms of her husband, perhaps even allow herself some pleasure. 

Tonight, they are just two people. 

She is determined to make sure that Byakuya finds his wedding night satisfactory. Enjoyable, if she can. His presence has been an oasis of calm in her otherwise barren life. She doesn’t think that she could ever give him the wedding night he deserves. But she will do her duty. She will do her best.

Muted as it may be, the starlight allows her to distinguish the lines of Byakuya’s jaw and the curves of his neck, and that’s enough. Drawing on her memories, it’s almost as if she can see him. If she wanted to, if her mind’s eye’s projection of a straight nose and high forehead should falter, she could reach out and trace the contours of his face. 

Her touch would be welcomed. 

But she doesn’t need to reach out to know his face, and she has yet to decide whether she wants to reach out at all, so Hisana lies still. 

It occurs to her, not for the first time in their acquaintance and subsequent courtship, that maybe she should be more grateful for Byakuya’s attention. Gushingly eager and enthusiastic. Head-over-heels in love. Buzzing with ecstasy to have been plucked from an existence on the lowest rung of the social ladder and transported to a fairy-tale life of luxury by a proverbial Knight in Shining Armour. But she isn’t any of these things, can’t be any of these things. There’s something in her that’s defective. Broken. Lacking.

Was she always like this? Or did she ruin herself somewhere along the way? 

Breaking away from that line of thought, Hisana is suddenly and agonisingly aware of her own breathing: slightly faster than usual, an accelerated, sharp intake of air that betrays her troubled mind. It’s too loud, too obvious, in an otherwise silent room. A painful lapse in self-control. And one that she hadn’t even noticed herself making, too caught up in her bitterness. 

Bitterness. Hisana mulls the word over in her mind and flinches internally. 

She makes an effort to steady herself, breathing in deeply through her nose and exhaling slowly with her mouth. His scent is masculine and clean. Like cedarwood. The comparison rises unbidden, but it serves to centre her in the present moment: she is lying close enough to Byakuya to begin to pick apart the intricacies of his cologne. They are alone together. They are married. And Hisana recognises her thoughts for the poison that they are. Byakuya is not the enemy here. The weight of expectation that Hisana feels and despises so keenly does not and has never come from him. Only from herself.

She quashes the self-loathing that has bubbled up into her throat, pushing it back into the cavity of her chest and sealing it away, lest it have the chance to spill out on to her tongue.

“Please,” she says instead. “Hold me in your arms.”

“As you wish.” Byakuya complies without hesitation.

Byakuya has always been kind to her. Attentive. He treats her with respect. And over the course of their first handful of interactions, Byakuya had quietly accepted her emotional reticence, asking only that she allow him the pleasure of her company, her time, her presence, but never directly (or indirectly) demanding that she respond to his affections with any passion of her own. 

Byakuya did not ask for anything that Hisana was either unable or unwilling to give, and, by the time Byakuya first laid eyes on her where she was working in a Tea House in the Seventeenth District (eyes down, hands folded in lap, back straight, chin up: a riddle of conflicting body language), the line that Hisana had drawn between unable and unwilling was so blurred by a mixture of self-loathing and self-protection that even she struggled to unpick the two. She still struggles to unpick the two.

Now, one of his arms is wedged underneath her body and his fingers draws light circles on the small of her back. If she didn’t know this man, didn’t know the deliberation that forestalls every move that he makes, it could easily be mistaken for an absentminded, affectionate gesture. 

Affectionate it may be, but she knows as well as he does that its purpose, with its steady rhythm and light pressure, is to work towards acclimatising her to his touch. 

His other hand rests weightlessly on her waist. 

Hisana wonders, in an absent sort of way, remembering how he had ever so politely (and with a rigidity in his upper body that Hisana had initially thought to be haughtiness but later learnt to recognise as nervousness) requested that she sit with him while he took his tea in the private room he had reserved, whether it would be more painful to be asked if she loves him or if she is capable of love. Neither question has an easy or immediate answer, so Hisana pushes the errant thought aside in favour of indulging a long held but recently niggling curiosity.

She bites her lower lip in hesitation before speaking, voice hushed so as not to disturb the darkness, “Why were you in the Seventeenth District? On the day that we met.”

Initially, Hisana had not known that Byakuya’s presence in the Seventeenth would have been considered unusual behaviour for a Shinigami, much less the heir to one of the noble houses. Then, as she grew better acquainted with the world from which he came, she had not considered it her place to ask. 

Byakuya releases a slow breath in consideration, choosing his words before he speaks them. “I was searching for a place in which I could reflect in solitude. Somewhere my clan would not think to follow me.”

Hisana hums in acknowledgement of his admission, encouraging him to elaborate. 

Byakuya pauses before continuing, “The Seventeenth is often considered to be either the first or the last truly civilised district in Rukongai, depending on the direction from which you choose to progress through the districts. It is an unlikely place for a noble to visit, given districts One through Ten provide every entertainment that can be found in the Seventeenth, but, should I have been found, no one could have credibly accused me of being there for dishonourable purposes.”

Hisana hums again, accepting the logic behind Byakuya’s explanation and translating its implications. It paints their meeting with a pleasing kind of symmetry – their paths converged in the Seventeenth because they were both, in their own ways, avoiding association with the brothels and whore-houses found in the districts further out. 

Both searching for respite. 

But where Byakuya had made his way to the last outpost of socially acceptable civilisation over the course of an hour or so on a lazy autumn afternoon, Hisana had spent decade after exhausting decade clawing her way up from the Seventy-Eighth District, and the Seventeenth was the first place, in a long list of places, where she had felt almost whole. Safe, if not content.

Above all else, Hisana is a survivor. Sometimes she hates that about herself. 

Once established in the Seventeenth, without the desperate pressure of focusing on day-to-day subsistence, Hisana had had the opportunity to reflect on the route she had taken to get there. With reflection came debilitating waves of guilt. Faced with difficult decisions, Hisana had made difficult choices. All in the name of survival. 

During her time in Rukongai, Hisana had stolen, lied, bribed and blackmailed, and, on two separate occasions, she had killed. 

The first was in self-defence: overcome by fear and panic and adrenaline, backed into a dead-end alley, a frantic struggle climaxed in Hisana stabbing wildly (once; twice; three times) into the body of her assailant with their own knife. Stumbling back into the street, dazed and sobbing, Hisana had washed the blood from her hands and kept walking. She never breathed a word of it to anyone. 

The second was contracted by the Yazuka and served the dual purpose of ingratiating herself with the local crime lords and financing her leap from the Seventy-Fifth to the Seventy-First District. Technically, in this case, Hisana was more of an accessory to murder than a killer herself, but that doesn’t really seem important when the man’s death was a direct result of her slipping the narcotics into his drink ( _“Just enough ta make him weak an’ sluggish, like. We want him ta know what we do ta him when we do it, mind. Tha’s a good girlie.”_ ) and, in any case, death is death in a very final kind of way. 

Two deaths. Maybe neither were strictly necessary. Maybe both could have been avoided if she’d kept a clear head. Made different decisions. But she couldn’t bring herself to regret either of them. 

Although she felt guilt and a degree of shame, there was a strange sort of pride in knowing that she had grabbed at every opportunity to pull herself out of the squalor of the outer districts. She had prioritised her own survival above all else.

Of all the choices that she made, only one truly haunted Hisana: abandoning Rukia.

None of her plans for survival could account for a baby; all demanded that she appear to be a young and available woman. Unable to even provide for herself, let alone a child, Hisana had made a difficult decision.

Worst of all, no matter how much time she spends considering the circumstances of her past, she cannot with complete confidence say that she made the wrong decision when she abandoned her sister. Yes, it was a decision made for the wrong reasons, spurred on by fear, and panic, and selfishness. But, Hisana’s time with the Yakuza had taught her that lone children have a better chance of surviving the outer districts than those accompanied by anyone who could, at a cursory glance, be designated the role of provider or protector.

Every district of Rukongai is assigned a division of the Gotei 13 to oversee the protection of its civilians. The outer districts are much neglected, but when a Shinigami patrol does pass through they are under orders to place abandoned babies in the care of government run orphanages, where they are given rudimentary care until they mature to a spirit age equivalent to a human five-year-old, at which point they are put back out onto the streets. The Shinigami patrols then prioritise unaccompanied infants when distributing basic supplies and necessities. 

The Yakuza took advantage of this by recruiting infants into their ranks. 

When Hisana had learnt of the possibility of Rukia’s survival, she had been overcome by relief, but was unable to take any action. If Rukia had survived, then as an infant she was safer without Hisana. And if they had been reunited their situation would have been little different to how it had been in the first place - with Hisana unable to provide for either of them. 

A reunion had been impossible anyway. She did not have the means nor the money nor the network necessary to even start searching for her sister. There was nothing she could do. She had to keep her head down and focus on her own survival. 

When she made it to the Seventeenth, Hisana had finally had the means to support both herself and her sister, had her sister been with her. It would have been a far cry from comfortable living on her meagre wages, but it would have been manageable. But once again, there was nothing she could do. If she left the Seventeenth she would be just as powerless to locate and provide for her sister as she had been in each previous district. Worse, she had made enemies as she progressed through the districts. Once she had been a useful, if not protected, tool. But she had double-crossed the Yazuka in the further out districts in order to curry favour with those as she advanced. 

Pretty, demure, polite, unobtrusive. Small smile, distant eyes. Hisana had found a place for herself in the criminal networks that dominates the outer districts, and she had played her part well. Thanks to latent memories from her previous life, she was proficient enough to conduct a passing tea ceremony. In the Seventy-Eighth that made her a rare novelty. She was a proper tea girl, not just another whore serving tea. She made those she served feel important, elevated them above their station. She became a living, breathing status symbol. 

She had worth, and her service (her person) was gifted to increasingly more powerful and influential men. 

Her purity was part of her value, and that suited her just fine. A drunkard who put his hand up her skirt in front of her temporary keeper in the Sixty-Ninth had every bone in his right arm broken. She remembers because it was the first time she had smiled in months. It had been the proof she needed that she had made herself valuable. She had manipulated people more powerful than herself into taking a vested interest in her well-being. It didn’t matter that it was because of her value as a tool. Protection is protection, and only a fool wouldn’t take advantage of it.

As she progressed through the districts, the role she played developed. 

She drifted from living status symbol to an active player in the game. She dealt in information. Bought and sold secrets.

Serving tea, acting like a pretty piece of decorative furniture, put her in the perfect position to overhear business deals. It was always surprising how often her clients forgot that the porcelain doll in the corner of the room had an existence outside of the teahouse. Had her own agenda. Might even be a threat. 

Hisana traded up and up and up, and then she ran. 

And now she’s here, lying on sheets that are probably worth more than all the money that passed through her hands during the entirety of her first decade in Soul Society, and cradled in the arms of a man whose love she knows she doesn’t deserve and can’t return. 

Byakuya’s hand has drifted down her back to stoke her outer thigh. His touch is gentle, a barely-there pressure that makes her hairs stand on end and her skin tickle. It’s not unpleasant. He moves his hand up and down, up and down, ghosting over her skin.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he moves his hand to cup her groin and rubs her sex with pads of his fingertips. It’s not a hesitant movement, but it’s cautious. 

Hisana closes her eyes and focuses on the foreign sensations. It’s fine. Nice, maybe. She’s never had much interest in touching herself. Never had any interest in sex with another person. But this is fine. On balance, it’s more positive than negative as an experience.

She can feel her body start to respond, start to produce natural lubrication in preparation for penetration. 

It’s fascinating how her body seems to be more involved with the proceedings than her mind. If asked, Hisana would not describe herself as feeling aroused, but her body seems to have other ideas. 

Byakuya kisses her neck, mouthing at her throat with hot, open lips. His breathing is heavy. Hisana can feel the hardness of his erection pressing against her hip. 

Not wanting to appear reluctant, Hisana lifts her hands to rest on his biceps and then strokes slowly up and across the muscles of his upper back and shoulders, mimicking Byakuya’s earlier touches to her thigh.

“I love the feel of you,” Byakuya whispers against her jaw, and presses a chaste kiss to her closed mouth. Hisana knows that Byakuya is skirting around the edges of what he means. He loves her, but thankfully he knows not to say it.

Hisana hums softly, considering what to say in response, but then the moment passes so she says nothing.

His body is strong and large above her, and, as Byakuya settles in between her thighs and presses inside with one smooth roll of his hips, she thinks that maybe she should be overwhelmed by desire, but instead she feels weak. His strength makes her resent the softness of her own body. 

Her diminutive frame makes her unthreatening, unimposing. It’s a double-edged sword: both a limitation and a means of playing to the expectations of others.

Byakuya keeps a steady rhythm, unfaltering and firm. He’s not rough by any means, but neither is he treating her like a fragile, breakable thing. Hisana appreciates that.

If she had his strength she never would have had to leave her sister behind. She could have protected the both of them, rather than just herself.

Hisana grips the back of Byakuya’s neck with one hand, squeezing gently, centring herself in the present moment, and uses the other to push his hair out of his face.

She thinks that maybe, in this moment, his expression might be softer than usual: shy rather than cold. Sometimes he gets a gentleness in his eyes when they’re alone together, and this is probably one of those times. 

Maybe he sees an echo of that softness in her. She hopes that he does. Hopes that he knows that she cares about him. She respects him. She values him for himself, not as a tool or a means to an end.

Hisana kisses Byakuya, open mouthed, and bites down on his lower lip before using her tongue to press into his mouth. Byakuya groans in a mixture of pleasure and surprise. The rhythm of his hips stutters as he climaxes, exhaling sharply into Hisana’s mouth. 

The past doesn’t matter, Hisana thinks to herself, petting at Byakuya’s hair. She’s going to keep moving forward, like she always has before. But now she doesn’t have to do it alone. With Byakuya by her side, with his strength and his love (even if she can’t return it in equal measure), she’ll move forward. They’ll move forward together.

**Author's Note:**

> Right, you know what really pisses me off? The fact that all we seem to know about Hisana is that she deserted Rukia in the 78th District, somehow ended up marrying Byakuya, felt super guilty about the whole abandoning her sister thing, died of an incurable illness, and that her last words are something along the lines of "Even at the end, I am still asking more of you. I am very sorry I couldn't return Byakuya-sama's love. I am sorry. Being with Byakuya-sama for the past five years was like a dream come true for me."
> 
> AHHHHHHHHHHGHGGHGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> It's just not enough. How did she get from point A to point B?? She arrives in Soul Society in 1855 and marries Byakuya in 1950. That's 95 years right there that haven't been accounted for!
> 
> So this is my headcanon for what went on in those missing years, and also an exploration of the whole "I am very sorry I couldn't return Byakuya-sama's love" thing.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed it!


End file.
